Confessions of a Pretty Boy Frontman
by EnjoyingObsession
Summary: Roger looks back on his life, in reverse chronological order. MarkRoger, RogerMimi, RogerApril.
1. The End

_How did it get so late so soon?  
It's night before it's afternoon.  
December is here before it's June.  
My goodness, how the time has flewn.  
How did it get so late so soon?_

- Dr. Seuss

We begin at the end and end at the beginning; I tell my story not in chronological order, but in order of the bits and pieces of memory that float to my mind. After all, life is not one long narrative but a whole bunch of experiences strung together, cut up by periods of empty sleep and fading memory.

I look upon my life backwards, beginning at the most recent event, my death, and going on towards my teenage years. From then on, my recollections are fuzzy and haphazard- I'm not sure which birthday party belonged to which year and so on. So we'll focus on my adult life, we'll wind back the clock and see whether this empty life ever really meant anything or not. I dispense facts as accurately as I can; it's up to you to make the decision.

_I DON'T THINK YOU'RE GOING TO EAT IT_

A constant stream of oxygen makes its way up my nostrils, out of the tube taped beneath my nose. It's wrapped around my head, the thin plastic curving away from my cheekbones and then drooping alongside my pillow to the oxygen tank.

I believe it's Mark sitting in the chair beside my bed- the thirty-year-old kid in chunky glasses and rumpled sweaters sniffling and pretending to read the paper. My eyesight isn't as good as it once was, because I am dying, and I do not deny it.

Um," he says softly. "Rog? "

_Yeah? _It comes out as "Mmm."

"You okay?"

"Mmm."

"Can I…can I have your fruit cup?" he asks gently. I can tell he's embarrassed to ask, even through the foggy haze of drugs I'm on.

"It's like…I don't think you're going to eat it, and I haven't really had anything since breakfast. Well, I mean, I had a coffee, but that doesn't really count. Well, it does _sort of _count, because it gave me these weird jittery feelings, so I had to walk all the way down to Maternity and back, but, like, it doesn't make the gnawing stop."

I force my voice up through my throat. It comes out hoarse and crackling.

"Mah-rk?"

"Yeah, Rog?"

"You can…have the fruit cup." I ease a breath through my lungs, feeling my throat burn from the effort. I'm pathetic. Am I not pathetic?

"Thanks, Rog. I knew you'd said yes."

"Mmm."

_THAT'S NOT VERY OLD_

I wander around the stark corridors of the hospital aimlessly. I've lost so much weight that I can barely cling to 110 pounds, the average weight of a preteen girl, not a 5"11 adult man. The walls of the hospital seemed to glow with sterile white ugliness and a solemnity that speaks of death and clean sheets.

My blue plastic gown with its microscopic white polka dots clings to me feebly, like a vinyl parasite. I pull along my IV drip with a pale arm; the misshapen wheels clang along the floor and interrupt the imposed silence.

I realize that I've already gotten to the children's ward when I notice the brightly coloured marker art that hangs on the walls. _Oh Tommy, look at that pretty sunshine! Is that representative of your celiac disease?_

A little girl rounds the corner, clad in a pink gown quite reminiscent of my own (except for the flamboyant colour). Deep red circles crease under her eyes. She looks to be about eight, with short frizzy blond hair and clenched fists.

"Hi," she says to me.

"Hi," I answer. I am not in the mood to announce my (quite low!) cell count to another well-wisher.

"I'm Mary."

"I'm Roger."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-nine."

"That's not very old."

"I know." She's wise beyond her years. "What are you here for?" I ask.

She whispers "Leukemia."

I bite my lip.

"What about you?"

"AIDS."

"What's that?"

"Something that makes you angry at the world."

She looks down at the floor. I catch a glimpse of the top of her head. Dried out, brittle yellow hair is tangled messily. It thins at the crown of her head, where she's bald.

_REALLY RATHER TOUCHING_

It's not the worst hospital room ever, I suppose, though my tendency for the melodramatic usually overrides me with hatred for pretty much everything.

The walls are white and overly sanitary. Unused medical equipment gleams in the corner, metal rods shiny and reflective. There are tubes also, rather stale looking yellow and clear plastic, with white marks where they've been bent. There's a sink on the far side of the room, with a chart above it detailing my extensive medication schedule and god knows what else.

My bed is slightly lumpy because of the thin mattress, but it's comfortable enough. The fuzzy teal wool blanket occasionally sheds tiny balls of fluff onto my sheets. The bed has a metal guard on each side, too low to keep anyone from falling out, but protruding just enough to make sitting on the bed impossible. This pisses Mark off, so he sits in an uncomfortable painted folding chair next to my bed, or lies down with me, which always draws looks. At some point I just had to let go of my embarrassment, realizing I wouldn't let a grumpy nurse taint my last few weeks with Mark.

I'm on an IV tube which is taped like a bracelet around my wrist and then into my veins. It's connected to a bag of clear fluid that dangles ominously from a frosted metal stand. I hate looking at it. It makes me feel like an invalid (which I am.)

The only spot of color in the room are the balloons that are weighted down on the floor next to my bed. They're shiny tin foil with brightly illustrated pictures of guitars and music notes. Collins brought them, thinking they'd cheer me up. To think that he stole _guitar _ones just for me is really rather touching, if not childish.

_I'VE NEVER NOTICED BEFORE_

Mark and I are room mates out of necessity. We are best friends out of convenience. We are lovers, though we tried quite hard not to be.

We are lying in his bed. He is stroking my hair and smiling shyly, biting his lower lip without thinking, the way he does. I am told that I do that too, biting my lip, though I haven't ever noticed. Maybe I picked it up from him, or maybe he picked it up from me. You never know.

I'm lying on my side underneath the worn comforter, which drapes over me, my body a shallow lump underneath it. I'm down to 120 pounds. My eyes have sunken into my face and my cheekbones jut out like skeletal knives.

"Mark?" I croak softly. My breath is hot on his face.

"Yeah, Rog…"

"Look…" I say. Mark shifts slightly and the mattress squeaks. "I'm sorry to bring this upon you. You don't need to stay here."

He looks down, exposing pale eyelashes.

"I know, Rog." He sniffles. "I love you." The morning sun has lit up the metal pipes of our industrial ceiling with streaks of light; I notice Mark's bookshelf against the dirty brick wall. Things I've never noticed before.

"Yeah," I murmur gruffly. "Well-- you too."

I still can't say _I love you_. It's never been my thing.

_BISEXUAL, THAN_

I'd be the first to admit that Mark and I initially had issues with being together …the most prominent issue being that neither of us considered ourselves gay.

"We aren't really gay," I say to him while we are eating dinner one night. He looks down into his oily chicken soup and turns pink. "We're just two straight men that happen to be having a romantic relationship."

He doesn't meet my eyes, but mumbles "That seems to be the definition of _gay_, Rog."

"Not really," I counter pathetically. "We still like women."

"Bisexual, than. But we're probably not straight."

Part of my soul still resides in high school, and wants_ so badly _not to be called "gay." I know this is the homophobia that prevents me from admitting what is evidently true, and yet I'll continue to hide from it stubbornly, because I, Roger Davis, am an asshole.

_NICE TO KNOW_

"Rog?" he asks. I glance over from the television, but my eyes are glazed over. Mark's face reflects blue light. The images from the TV dance off his glasses.

"You're _not _watching Sailor Moon."

"There was nothing else on."

"Turn that off _immediately _and come to bed. I'm lonely."

"Oh, go jerk off to your Sailor Venus porn." I turn back to the TV to observe scantily clad anime girls. Isn't it nice to know the world is being saved by someone who also looks good in a pixilated mini skirt? Besides, it helps me forget about my soar throat brought on by thrush.

He ambles off, sighing deeply. Under his breath, Mark mutters "How did he know?"

_YOU'RE LUCKY_

Collins is large, tall and husky. I am thin and frail. I consider this to be remarkably unfair given the difference in our years with HIV.

When we walk through the Village's Thompkins Square Park, he strides slowly so I can keep up with his long legs and seemingly never-ending energy. His sensible shoes scrape against the cement path satisfyingly; my mangy sneakers smack the pavement as I huff alongside him. Our shadows are cast far forward- his stretching on for a good few inches past mine.

"The thing is," he's saying, "you just have to take it one day at a time. If you worry all your life, you'll miss out on life itself."

"Yeah," I grunt. It's easy for Collins to spew this mantra when he didn't spend the sunny November morning vomiting up his antibiotics.

He continues. "See, back in my seropositive days, I was constantly plagued with all these concerns. I went to the doctor like once a month; I was fine but all my tests came back positive with these freaking weird antibodies. And that was back in the eighties. And let me tell you something Roger, you're _lucky _you got diagnosed in '91. I had to wait so long for them to find out anything."

A cool breeze tickles my neck. A jogger passes by, her dark hair flying behind her, contrasting with the clear sunlight and autumn trees.

"And then," Collins explains, "_finally _in 1988 I tested completely positive. And you know what?"

"What?" I pout. I don't want to hear the uplifting answer. Lectures are for college students, not me.

"I was glad. No more beating around the bush. Life doesn't suck so much anyways, and this is a Chronic But Manageable Disease."

"But Collins," I interject, "what I don't get is this: It's '96. You tested positive in '88. You were seropositive a long time before that. You must have had AIDS for at_ least_ ten years now. _How are you still around?_"

He laughs at me, a deep, hearty laugh that makes its way up all the way from his belly. I roll my eyes.

_AN ABSTRACT ILLNESS_

Cloudy moonlight dusts the sidewalks. The streets of East 13th are mostly empty except for the occasional pedestrian. A car passes by once in a while, disturbing the peace with a loud whoosh of air. Late night drug stores and Chinese restaurants glow with chipped neon signs and window light that spills onto the street.

I remember this night, October 17th 1996, because it was the night that I knew I was dying.

AIDS is an abstract illness; few understand it biologically, but many people can tell you the rather unpleasant connotations. Gay people. Prostitutes. Drug addicts. Hemophiliacs. AIDS smells like blood and semen and the nineteen eighties.

I didn't have AIDS until that night. I was HIV-positive, which was rather difficult to explain. What is HIV-positive anyways? It's waiting and watching, swallowing brittle pills day after day as you dread the inevitable future. It's being extra careful when you throw away used Band-Aids. It's lying awake at night, wondering how many sleepless nights you have left when you _feel _fine.

Then AIDS sneaks up on you when you least expect it- dark violet bruises that you notice in the shower, on your calves and thighs and chest. It's insomnia for the fifth night this week and the redness under your eyes. It's dry, harsh coughing when you have no allergies.

We return to the night of October 17th. Walking home from the doctor, thinking about my depressing lack of T-cells and wishing so badly I could be someone else. Hoping so badly I could somehow wake up the next day and not be Roger Davis- ex-drug addict, former rocker, in denial "straight" kid who sleeps with his pathetic room mate and now, soon to be AIDS-casualty.


	2. The Middle

_The first magic of love is our ignorance that it can ever end._

-Benjamin Disraeli

And so we have come to the middle of my story, which you may already know. Looking back from the end, these years seemed to glow with passion and melancholy, fighting and making up and the constant threat of my own mortality hanging in the back of my mind.

_FUCK_

She's breathing from an oxygen cup taped to her cheeks and covering her mouth, emitting loud artificial breaths. I stroke her dirty curls and close my eyes. Spots of light burn against my eyelids. I'm _so _overwhelmingly tired. Fatigue aches in bones and muscles; it presses against my heart and tugs at my mind. All I want to do is curl up and lie next to Mimi. Mimi- she is my dying lover, my sparring partner, the bane of my existence and love of my life. I adore her but it also hurts me to think about her at all.

I leave her for a moment to go outside on the fire escape and smoke. I strike a match feverishly and light up the cigarette; the tip flares red and then dies down as I inhale a puff of smoke and exhale it out. A rush of nicotine to my brain clears stopping my hands from shaking and gives me a fresh jolt of energy but doesn't take the pain away.

Oh Mimi. I wish she would just die already. I feel guilty for these thoughts, but I deserve them. I'd rather the numbing emptiness than this constant grief. I'm tired of crying, tired of sleepless nights and Mark bringing me coffee and the wilting flowers that turn brown next to Mimi's bed. Perhaps they're a sign of the death that's imminent. Perhaps I should have thrown them out yesterday, but either way the aura of decay and sadness still hangs suspended in the loft.

I'm not working and Mark is. Is it wrong for him to pay all the bills? I suppose our rather uneven friendship transcends money, but it still makes me feel uneasy. He could throw me out any day and I'd have no place to sleep.

Wait- Mark _can't _throw me out. He wouldn't. He's afraid of me, and ashamed of me, and most frighteningly, he loves me more than anyone ever has. I don't know why but that's Mark. He's impenetrable. I don't know what he's thinking, but I can read his mind. Is that juxtaposition? Is that wrong? I don't know. I don't know anything anymore.

I live in a dumpy, broken loft in a building that New York City seems to have forgotten. _Fuck_ is spray painted in bright green against our heavy metal front door, the letters cut up by all the miniscule holes in the wrought-iron grate that locks shut against the frame. _Fuck_. So original, right? Is it supposed to be punky and counter-culture? Is it supposed to be a joke?

_Fuck_. It's ironic really. A four letter word pretty much sums up my entire life, and lo and behold, it gets graffiti-ed majestically against my own apartment's front door. It's incidences like this that make me believe that there truly is a god, and he really does hate me. Well, at least I was right about that.

I fucked up. Let's clarify- I fucked _everything _up. I define the word "fuck" and there's pretty much no other way to explain it.

_IT'S YOUR GIRLFRIEND WHO'S DYING, ANYWAYS_

Mark and I slump over the table at breakfast, eyeing the _Daily News _warily and sticking our fingers in the cereal. I suck on a metal spoon absentmindedly. Pale stubble crawls over Mark's cheeks. He needs to shave. And brush his teeth.

"Roger," he drawls.

"What?"

"Did you pick up Mimi's thing yet?"

"What _thing_?" I push back a few loose locks of hair from my eyes and squint at him. I know I need glasses, but I'll never admit it.

"The pills. I got a phone call from CVS saying the stuff had to be picked up by Monday or you lose the prescription."

"Why didn't you tell them I'd be there by Sunday?'

"It was an automated call, you little fuck."

He rubs his eyes and reaches for a piece of Wonderbread that's fallen out of the bag. I snatch the slice before he can take it.

"I'll get it on Sunday. I _told _you," I whine, stretching out the vowel immaturely.

He rolls his blue eyes and pushes himself up from the table. Mark kicks the chair back to one side.

"It's your girlfriend who's dying, anyways."

Wow, that was…nasty. Sometimes I hate Mark, you know that? Sometimes I hate every little yellow hair that grows out of his head.

"Mimi won't be out of stuff for at least another week. So you can go _fuck off and leave me alone, _because you _do not _understand what this is like for me."

Oh but he will. I didn't know at the time, but Mark would know exactly what it was like.

_WHY_

There's a long jagged icicle hanging from the roof's ledge just outside our foggy window. The lights from inside reflect against its edge, while the middle only shows empty blackness until it curves into the light again. Snow flakes fall gently, sailing in the wind against our dirty bricks until they cling to the edges of the frozen windowpanes.

Mimi was found today, coughing and shivering on a bench in Bryant Part. When Maureen and Joanne lugged her in like a sack of potatoes (who weighed even less) she sported a torn vinyl coat, miniskirt, ripped stockings and those clunky pink boots with dirty shoelaces. Her hair was wild and unwashed, brittle and dry at the ends and caked with dirt and snow. Her lips, chapped and purple, looked like she'd been sucking on a grape popsicle for the past two months. Disease hovered around her like a cancerous cloud.

Mimi. Mimi. _Mimi_. Why does she have to do this to me? How can she berate me for running away and then nearly kill herself from starvation? _Why?_

I don't understand people. I don't understand myself, why I can't quit smoking or get a real job or take care of myself instead of forcing Mark to do it. I don't understand why Mimi ran away and let us find her near death, or why Mark was waiting for me to come home.

So now she sleeps fitfully in my bed, sheets tucked about her purposefully. We piled extra blankets on her and gave her a hot water bottle, in the hopes that she'll "defrost" by the time we take her to a doctor tomorrow.

I only hope she makes it through tonight.

_SEEING STARS_

Let it be known that I despise this place. If I see another Cowboys 'n' Indians souvenir store, another Wild-West tavern, another fucking burrito joint, I am going to go the way of my suicidal former girlfriend.

It's chilly here, but it won't snow. The wind blows dust and sand around everywhere until my skin cracks and bleeds with dryness. I wonder if my blood is considered a murder weapon. That would be something I'd debate about with Collins, if he were here or if I were there, but I am not there and his is not here.

The nights here are dark and still. The stars are just white dots that are scattered across the sky abstractly. I've lived in New York City my whole life, looking up at the foggy, smoky sky every night and thinking I'm missing something by not seeing stars. Now here I am, sitting on the sandy gravel curb outside a motel, watching the moon glow silvery and solid and there are the stars that I always dreamed of seeing. They're tiny and inconsequential and I'd give anything just to go_ home_, leave this desert behind me so I can sit on a cold, snowy rooftop and watch the factory smog cloud up the night sky until only the snowflakes are visible.

_OPEN ROAD_

"_That's me in the corner!_," thumps my radio, blaring static and a heavy bass line. "_That's me in the spotlight, losing my religion_," I sing along to Michael Stipe's masterpiece, letting my harsh, hoarse voice follow the subtle melody. My car speeds down the highway; _yes_, it's a clunker with rusted sides and a cracked windshield but at this point, I really have little choice. This car's a 1988 model with chipping blue paint and manual gears. It has the gracefulness of an elephant and the comfort of a tricycle. I hate it and adore it.

Behind me, the highway spreads out along the world like a tar-coated black ribbon. I drive carelessly and let my fingers spread out along the tape-covered steering while. I'm a good driver, if I do say so myself, but I haven't been behind the wheel since April sold the car her father left her back in 1989.

Rotting leaves get stuck between the wheels and the axis, chips of burnt orange and dusty brown. I hate autumn and I despise the pieces of it that seem to invade me. The world is behind me and with every mile clocked on the dashboard, I'm putting my problems behind me. Angel's death and Mimi's infidelities are infinitesimal issues when the smoky breeze is blowing through your window as you let a cigarette dangle from your lips. Cars are beautiful and life is not; I don't need either of them, but I've chosen one. Otherwise I'd be dead.

A sign grows in the distance, large and solid. I get closer and lean forward- what does it say? WELCOME TO MISSOURI: THE SHOW-ME STATE. Well, hello to you too.

Aside from the sign, there isn't anything to mark the state line. I do get a perverse sense of satisfaction from crossing it, but in the distance, there's nothing but miles and miles of unconquered open road.

_AN INCREDIBLY SAD TIME_

Before Angel's funeral, Mark and I swing by this cheap little flower shop on 3rd Avenue and 15th. Loud, bright flowers glare at us garishly from the stuffy shelves. I examine the price tag of a small bunch of white poppies that are tucked in a corner next to a _Happy Birthday _bouquet of damp yellow carnations. It occurs to me that Angel's birthday would have been November ninth. She was going to be twenty-nine.

I hear a rubbery squeak grind against the wet tiled floor, and turn around. There's Mark, hunching aimlessly by the _Halloween Specials_ stand. Fragments of dyed orange baby's breath have fallen onto his coat. There's an aura of sadness about him- but Mark can hold it together, and he _will_, at least for today.

He notices me and his head perks up. His skin has faded to a rather morose pale colour. Mark needs to get out more.

"Rog?"

"Yeah," I grunt huskily.

"Um…" He sighs and brushes the wet flowers off his coat. "Did you choose something yet?"

"Oh- uh," I pull out the bundle of poppies, "Yeah."

He gives me a watery smile. "I'll pay, and then we can, um, get going."

"Yeah." I give him the flowers, careful not to crush them in my grip, and he heads to the cash. The lighting in the store is bad; unforgiving fluorescent industrial bulbs that illuminate the starkness of the room and cast ugly shadows under every fucking dust mite.

I'm glad to leave the shop- _Manhattan Island Floral _–and stride down the sidewalk alongside Mark toward the cemetery. Breezy noonday traffic floats by. The usual city sounds clutter the environment but neither of us are paying attention. We walk briskly, because Mark is anal and afraid of being late. I'd give anything to be late to a funeral. Especially this one.

He speaks up to me just as we round the corner of 14th Street (almost getting knocked over by an unmindful cigarette smoker and Japanese food delivery boy in the process.)

"Mimi's going to be there," Mark says carefully. "She's going to speak about Angel."

"I know."

"This is a really hard time for her. They were best friends. She must be Really Upset."

_I have heard this lecture before._

"I'd hate to think that you especially would upset her further. This is Angel's Day. We are _not _going to be disrespectful."

"I know," I interject sullenly.

"If you see her…with anyone," he continues, "we are not going to bring it up, because this is an Incredibly Sad Time. Mimi's behaviour or choice of companionship is Not The Issue."

"I know."

"That's good," Mark comments more softly. The graveyard draws nearer. Fading leaves adorn the trees. The grass is tangled up in the outer wrought-iron fence messily. We approach the gate.

Mark hesitates. The poppies, crumpled in their clear plastic wrapper, droop against his leg.

I squeeze his hand gently.

_NOW, THAT'S LOW_

I once did this gig at a club called _Thirteen _on the unassumingly artsy cultural-poverty dump that is Avenue D. Not even _I_, a Village-dwelling lifelong New Yorker, had been there before, and after playing a set, I did not want to go back. Ave. A isn't so bad, B gets worse, C is pretty bad, but D- now that's low. It's pretty much like the South Bronx, but with higher literacy and lower incomes. Pretty much everyone there is crazy and wacked out on stuff that even a diehard junkie would refuse.

Actually, art-wise, the drugs were pretty creative. Seeing as more expensive ingredients like poppies or cannabis were unavailable, cheaper alternatives were used. "Junk" there would not be out place in an art studio- industrial glue, white-out and pretty much anything sniff-able or smoke-able.

Mimi's drugs are a bit more high-class than that, but seeing her dark wooden medicine cabinet overflow with half-finished, unlabelled pill bottles reminds me of _Thirteen _and the tranny selling bright pink fake ecstasy right in front of me, while I played guitar.

She's shivering on her bare mattress, shaking back and forth from the withdrawal that sends chills up and down her spine. I'm looking for Tylenol or Aspirin- anything to relieve the pain, but all she seems to have are nameless bottles of crumbled capsules with unlisted purposes.

Her apartment is dark, nearly empty and disturbingly damp. Heavy yellow plastic shades are pulled down over the windows. Clothes and boots are strewn haphazardly on the concrete floor. I try to turn on a tall, skinny floor lamp; the bulb is broken.

"God, Mimi," I groan as I sink down with a heavy creak onto her mattress. "I thought _I _was messy." I pull her into my arms and through clattering teeth, she sighs gratefully. Her arms are bare and cold; even in the dim light, I can spot disturbing purple bruises against her light brown skin.

_GOOD ENOUGH FOR NOW_

She sits in front of the mirror applying gaudy makeup- pink lipstick, heavy rouge and a generous dose of metallic silver eye shadow that clings to the curves of her eyelids and sparkles when she blinks.

"Roger, honey, don't squint like that at me. You're gonna get wrinkles before you're twenty-five."

I peck her head sweetly through kinky dark hair. She bends back in her folding chair and reaches for my face. We kiss and it's good, not too good, but good enough for now. She's wearing her costume for the night, shiny black patent leather and stiletto boots. I clutch at her shoulders and cling to the straps of her top. The moment lasts just long enough for me to taste her, spicy like cinnamon and the acrid odour of too much cheap perfume. She looks into my eyes with her dark ones- wide and brown, and I can see my own small blue ones reflected in hers.

Mimi breaks away first, smiling cheekily at me. Running her lime green nail-polished fingers through my hair, she murmurs "I have to get ready for the show."

"Okay," I whisper and peck her forehead one last time.

She runs a comb through her untamable hair, trying to push it down. Finally, giving up, she gets out of the chair, waves to me and dashes out to the backstage area.

The moment ends; the summer of 1992 is fleetingly beautiful and quickly over.


	3. The Beginning

_I can't resist the day_

_No, I can't resist the day_

-Vanessa Carlton, "White Houses"

_TRY FUCKING HARDER_

"Is it morning yet?" Gentle June light creeps underneath the blinds. Mark runs a hand through his sweaty hair and checks his watch.

"Almost, Rog."

"How much _longer_?" I whine. My voice is hoarse and dry. It burns my throat.

"Let's not worry about that right now."

"Is it six thirty yet?" Six thirty is what Mark deems morning. Any time before that is night.

At six thirty, I will have officially gone five days without a hit. And I hurt. God, heroin withdrawal is more painful than I ever dreamed of. My muscles ache like I've just run a hundred miles without stretching, I'm nauseous, I'm dizzy and my brain throbs with a head ache.

"Roger," Mark says softly. He's sitting on my bed in a musty t-shirt and underwear. His eyes are rimmed with red. He hasn't slept since April killed herself. Neither have I.

"I'll tell you when it's six thirty. Just _try _to sleep."

"I can't _try _to sleep," I moan. We've washed my t-shirt numerous times since I vomited on it, but it still smells. The stain, now pale brown is splattered across the front of it. My blankets are wrinkled and unwashed. They smell sweaty and taste like bile, echoing my own withdrawal.

"Well, try fucking harder!" Mark presses his fingers against his temples. I'm guessing he's fighting a killer head ache while a few rays of sun spill out from the window behind him. His front is cast in shadow; backlit against the lightening room. He wants to be here just as much as I do, which is to say, not much. But he _is _here. And that's why he's Mark.

_KISS ME_

I'm rubbing her feet gently, pressing against the bones in her foot, feeling the warm, calloused skin against my fingers. April stretches back on our bed. She sports nothing but underwear and a Pink Floyd t-shirt, which is difficult to see in the dark. The hot early summer night has forced us to rethink traditional notions of clothing.

"You're tense," I comment softly. We're both sweating everywhere; her legs feel dewy and my armpits are damp.

"I'm fine, Roger. Fine."

I grunt and squeeze her feet, feeling the hollow of her insteps. Low, quiet music resonates mutedly from the room next to us. Mark must be listening to his concertos again.

"Sweetie?" she asks unexpectedly.

"Yeah?"

"Do you have any weed left?"

I nod.

She giggles, her laughter echoing up the room into the ceiling. My fingers are sticky with sweat on her painted toenails.

"I can't see you in the dark. Just tell me."

"I have some. Why do you ask?" Her breathing is raspy and heavy, probably because of the humidity.

"I don't know, Roger. C'mere and kiss me."

I crawl on top of her in the stuffy darkness, the ribbed pattern of her undershirt pressing red marks into my arms. And then her breath is in my face, smelling like nicotine and stale perfume.

_WE'LL SMOKE POT AND WASTE OUR LIVES_

A skinny trail of slate-coloured smoke drifts away from Maureen's cigarette. She's holding it loosely between her middle and index fingers, letting the red-hot tip dangle over the railing of the fire escape. The sky is dark and cloudy. It'll probably snow soon.

"I thought you said your New Year's resolution was to quit," I tease her playfully.

She exhales a breath of smoke in my face and says "That's my _New Year's _resolution. It's still December 31st, and I have two more hours left to smoke."

"You won't ever quit."

"I _so _will. I have much more will power than you," Maureen chides me. She's cut the fingers out of her gloves so she can hold a cigarette. A solitary snowflake drifts down from the sky and lands on her shoulder.

"You have no will power at all."

"Yeah, I do!"

"If you did, you wouldn't be ogling other guys right in front of Mark. "  
"_Roger_!" she shrieks with laughter. Pushing her cigarette against the cold railing to snuff it out, she drops it onto the fire escape grill, where it slips through the bars down five stories and onto the powder-dusted street. "I never even glance at other _guys_." The irony is lost on me. "Besides, you're the alcoholic. _I _don't have to have Benny drag me inside every night at four a.m. to vomit."

"Benny," I scoff. My nose is stinging from the cold, but we stay outside because it's a beautiful night, the last of 1990. The snowflakes twinkle from the light reflected off glowing neon signs. Even the graffiti-scarred brick of the 24 hour drugstore across the street is uncharacteristically graceful in the freezing night.

"Benny's gone off to get married," says Maureen in a low, raspy voice, "and Collins is leaving in June. Soon it'll be just the four of us. And what'll we do? We'll smoke pot and waste our lives and Mark will sit inside and read."

"Hey!" I take offense at my Maureen's scorn of Mark. "He's _your _boyfriend."

She pushes a tangled, snow-powdered curl out of her face and turns around, leaning against the flimsy iron railing.

"I know, " she says. "He's a sweetheart. He's inside making me a cup of tea. And he _hates_ the smell of tea."

"He tries."

"Yeah," she smiles weakly. There's lipstick dried on her teeth. "He tries. Very hard, I guess you could say. But…"

"But?"

"But nothing.

"Maureen…"

"But _nothing_. And anyways, you have enough problems with April."

"I don't have any problems with April," I cut in quickly. I'm lying. We both know. I glance away from her, toward the faded night sky. The clouds know and the moon knows and Collins knows, and he's right to want to get out of here. Somehow, what we all planned when we moved in to this drafty loft didn't turn out to be the way things happened. Mark and Maureen, so infatuated with each other, now living side by side and not speaking. They don't argue. They have sex. Mark loves her, but he knows their heyday is fading. It's love with a time limit and the deadline is approaching. I'm afraid for him, because he feels so much more strongly about her than she for him, but I also know she's a restless butterfly and he's holding her down. They're both dying inside. Maureen will be the one to end it, and I don't know when it'll be, but Mark will certainly be hurt. And yet the alternative is years of her boredom, her tantrums against the rest of us, her obvious cheating. She used to love him. That was back when April and I were still sober.

"God, you know," I say softly. She nods, and squeezes my hand, her wool gloves scratchy against my cold skin. "Things were uncomplicated. They were, at some point."

"Yeah," Maureen smiles at me, this time genuinely. There's a twinkle in her dark eyes, and I know it's just for me. "You must be freezing."

I laugh, glad to break free of the tense air between us.

"There are snowflakes in your eyebrows."

"On your coat."

"In your hair."

"Let's go inside." I pull her by the hand toward the cracked, dirty glass door that leads into the loft. She follows, almost as if we were dancing a tango.

'_CAUSE YOU'RE GAY, THAT'S WHY_

Mark is sprawled out on the floor reading a magazine, his hands pressing into his cheeks, eyelashes down as he scans the page. I almost trip over him on the way to the couch.

I kick the TV and it turns on with a burst of static. Crackling loudly, the evening news comes into focus. I observe the attractive brunette newscaster as I settle down onto the ugly sofa. Collins is lying back against the other end. His socks have been peeled off and dumped unceremoniously onto the floor."A small fire recently destroyed two townhouses in Upper Manhattan," says the newscaster sternly. Her hair is glossy and

pulled back in a modest style. Very 6 o'clock chic. "Investigators say they are still looking to find the cause of the blaze, in which one person was injured. Sixteen-year-old Katherine Feist was transported to the New York Presbyterian Hospital, where she remains in critical condition."

I notice the thin, metallic sound of faux-punk rock lingering in the room. Tinny music is seeping from Collins's old 1982 headphones. The song creeps into my brain. I hate it.

"_Collins_…"

He doesn't answer. His eyes are closed as he listens, chin nodding slightly to the beat.

"What the fuck are you listening to so loudly?" Mark looks up from Collins' copy of _The Advocate_. In retrospect, I probably should have guessed that we weren't completely straight.

Collins snaps the music off suddenly and pulls off the huge clunky headphones.

"Nothing," he says suddenly. There's a thin layer of drool on the side of his face.

Mark laughs. "You know what I caught Collins listening to yesterday?"

"Mark," Collins warns him sternly. He wipes the saliva off his face with a large brown hand.

"You know that band-"

"That was Between You And Me-"

"-think it's this Christian rock group, I swear to God…or Jesus, I guess-"

I snatch his CD player off the couch abruptly and Collins lunges forth at me, trying to get it back.

"Mark, you promised you wouldn't tell-"

He tries to pull my wrists away but I snap open the CD player and remove the brittle silver CD. The rainbow colours glimmer off it, interrupted by the album name.

"Reliant K!" I pronounce loudly. Mark snickers. Collins pouts at me before getting up to retrieve _The Advocate _from underneath Mark's nose.

"Collins, you really can't be listening to David and the Giants," I counsel him wisely. He rolls his eyes with disdain.

"And why not?"

" 'Cause you're a_ university professor_,"Mark stresses, as if it's the most obvious thing since the invention of the wheel.

I disagree. "That's not why. It has nothing to do with that."

"Finally, some sense out of one of you," Collins intones dryly.

"Nope," I announce. "You still can't listen to David and the Giants."

"What the fuck? Why can't I?"

"'Cause you're _gay_, that's why."

Mark straightens his thick, ugly glasses and stifles a giggle.

_STRANGE FERVOUR_

Instruments clang loudly against their cases as the members of my band pack up with tired sighs and smoky breath. The night goes on outside, sitting dark in the streets and putting shadows between the road and the curb. Inside, my eyes are bleary in the brightly lit green room sitting behind the dark stage at 8BC, a favourite haunt of mine. I can feel my mind ache and my ears ring and burn with tinnitus. I hate packing up after a loud, dark rock 'n' roll night for this very reason.

"See ya," grunts my bassist as he heaves through the steel door, awkwardly maneuvering his leather-coated guitar through the skinny frame. The other musicians fold up wires and cords, lug their instruments to the exit, kicking away spare sheaves of guitar tabs and keyboard music as they leave. I'm waiting for April and she's late.

I sit on a creaky old bench near the back of the room, rubbing my eyes and trying not to fall asleep. It was a late set tonight, starting at two in the morning instead of the usual eleven at night. It was a bad spot for my band- not enough exposure- but it was my fault, for not booking soon enough. I notice cracks on the ceiling, cutting through the plaster and stopping halfway down the wall, like tiny black threads. God, I'm feeling sleepy.

"Am I _late_?" she blurts out noisily, jerking me from my dreaming. April's hair is dyed obnoxious yellow this week, and it lies tousled and sweaty. Her jeans are riding a little too low on her hips, the strategic rips flapping beneath her knees. God, I love her.

"No…uh…not at all."

She swings her purse in excitement. I don't know where she gets her energy this late at night, but watching her just makes me feel exhausted. I suppress a yawn painfully.

" I wanted to show you something, baby."

"C'mere, April." She bounds through the room (almost tripping over her red faux-leather stilettos in the process) and sits down next to me. Out of her pink fur adorned fake-crocodile skin purse, she pulls a small plastic baggy of what looks like finely ground sugar.

"That's not coke, is it?" I'm disinterested in stimulants at this late hour.

"Don't be a spoil sport, Rog. It's just H, okay?" she whines. "I know you haven't tried it yet, but…" She leans over her loudly coloured purse and a half-closed bottle of cream soda fall out, tumbling dangerously near my guitar case. I kick it away instinctively.

"If you get anything on my stuff, April-"

"It's only a little bit, and I just wanted you to try it. It's a _depressant,_ sweetie." April glows in her knowledge of this word. It doesn't impress me, but I reach for the bag.

"You can't snort it Rog." The plastic crinkles in my fingers.

"You said you wanted me to try it!?" I exclaim.

"I know," she purses her glossed lips, "but I have to find the-" she rummages through the zippered pockets of her purse, "um, citric acid, and do you have a belt?"

"What? Why? Do you even have a syringe? Can't we do this at home?" She's so disorganized, it even upsets me, and I'm nor exactly neat.

"Yeah. So, uh, get your guitar, and we'll leave…"

I zip up my leather coat and grab my guitar case, slinging the heavy weight over my shoulder. April, ever the Energizer Bunny, runs out the door while I'm still making my way across the room. We clamor through the darkened club, bumping into tables and tripping over microphones wires in the dim light until we get outside. A refreshing breeze washes over me, tickling my clipped hair and grimy forehead.

April clutches my wrist. She's sweating, hard.

The New York night is cool and mesmerizingly silent- in fact, uncommonly silent for a usually busy street like this. Only a few pedestrians stumble down the sidewalks drunkly. The neon signs flash and glow with strange fervour. It's a night for magic.

_I THINK WE'LL GET ALONG FINE_

"This place isn't, um, it isn't that bad, actually," my maybe-future-room-mate says nervously. "The fridge, well I usually unplug it for half the time to save money- but it stays cold- the fridge works. And the wood burning stove, well, you could say it's unconventional" he titters, "but it cooks. That's all that matters, right?"

"Yeah," I mutter. I've been eating out of a portable toaster oven for the past three weeks. Anything is good enough for me now.

"The mail box is downstairs- you saw it coming in, right? Nobody steals the mail, really. And I'm _gonna _get a lock for it, as soon as I get my next paycheck…"

"Yeah." My monosyllabic language doesn't seem to calm him. He's grinning hugely, his thick glasses askew on his nose, sweat marks appearing in beneath his arms on his musty sweater. "What'd you say your name was, again?"

"Mark…Mark Cohen? But you could, well, _can_, just call me Mark...I don't want to be formal or anything!" He's almost shouting. "So, yeah, Mark, just Mark- I think I said that already. And you're Roger- can I just call you Roger?"

"Yeah." I glance around at his large, but vastly empty loft. The wood floor is dusty and dirty (my kind of housekeeping!), but the sun streams in from his large and unwashed windows at the far end, giving a sense of airiness to the room. Mismatched, patchy furniture clutters together at one end. The plates stacked up on the wooden counter are clean, but haphazardly placed. In the corner, by the rabbit-ears TV is an empty coat rack, from which black and white film is suspended. I notice a monolithic extension cord that snakes its way across the floor and out a cracked hole in the window.

"That's for the electric stuff- it's kind of hard to explain," Mark- Just Mark- confesses nervously.

"Okay. Can I move in?"

"I haven't shown you the bedrooms yet. They're mostly fine-"

"That's alright. I'm staying with my drummer for the time being, but he's…kind of getting evicted tomorrow and he's going to stay with his sister in Brooklyn, but I can't go with him, so I kind of have to find someplace soon."

"How soon?" he blurts out, jerking his hands out of pockets and patting down his cardigan.

"Um. Like, tomorrow." I change the subject rapidly. "Do you have money?"

"No."

"Neither do I. I think we'll get along fine."


	4. The Epilogue

"_Yeah, we're running alright. Running with scissors."_

-Augusten Burroughs

Words come and go. I had a story and it's been told, perhaps to someone with nothing better to do than listen. I could tell you what happened after I died, but you'd accuse me of being a believer, a skeptic, a dreamer, an atheist. Would you honestly want to know the truth, or would you just feel better about knowing? It's much better to find out the answers on your own, through trial and error. I sure did, and let me tell you, my errors were large and my trial, one unfairly conducted. Death is feared, that's why we have religion, but who's to say who's right and who's wrong? I lived the life of sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll, and I paid for it, but does that make me a bad person? You heard my story. You're the only one with the right to judge.

So my life has come to an end. Dying at twenty-nine was not a pleasant experience in the least, but I had no other choices. If I hadn't died, where would I have gone and what would I have done? Mark loved me, but he wanted a future that he wouldn't be embarrassed to tell his parents about. I never went to college and my days as a badass frontman were certainly coming to an end. Perhaps I should be glad for my fate, but I'm not, at least, not yet. Thirty is looming closer and already dandelions and goldenrod are blooming around my tombstone. I loved my life, but would I do it all over again?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

_ANYWHERE, OR THE LAST VIGNETTE_

The memory that floats to my mind most poignantly is of a dream I had back when I was nineteen and Collins had just moved into the loft with Mark and I. I'm standing in the middle of the road, city buildings blurred by my mind. Where in Manhattan am I? Anywhere.

Mark is about a hundred feet ahead of me. He's walking slowly, his feet wobbling with the dreamlike quality. It's late afternoon and the blue-gold light filters down from the sky, illuminating his profile as he turns back to look at me.

"You coming?" he shouts

"Nah," I answer, smiling back at him. My feet won't move, not because they are stuck, but because I chose not to move them.

Mark looks at me for a long, hard moment and then turns and walks on for a while. When he's just a speck on the horizon, he turns back once again.

"Hey Rog?" Mark's far away, but his voice is strangely clear and loud.

"Yeah?"

"Don't Do Drugs," he says cryptically. The Salvador Dali quote hangs in the air for a moment and then fades off.

Mark turns back forward and strides off into nothingness, leaving me and my dream behind him.

He'll get older and I won't. I'll live forever as a grungy, rocking twentysomething.

_Die young, stay beautiful._

The End.


End file.
